Eliguk Journal – March 23, 2025.

Reflection: For the Lack of Anything Except Ordinary.

• Looking back on our experiences and evaluating them.
• Gaining insights that lead to personal growth.
• Introspective thinking and contemplation to understand thoughts, emotions, behaviors, and experiences.
• Seeing our own reflection as gateways to our inner selves.

Today I'm contemplating the beauty of life's routine moments.

As I cozy up in my log cabin this Sunday afternoon, the delicate dance of snowflakes outside reminds me of the beauty in life’s fleeting moments. Winter might be trying to hold its grip, but inside, I’ve stoked the wood stove twice, whipped up breakfast and lunch, tackled the dishes, and even tamed Mountain Man's sawdust glitter with a vacuum. Now that all that hard work is behind me, I’ve certainly earned this moment of reflection!

Life is much like this cabin: sometimes drafty and unpredictable depending on who or what enters through the doorway, whether it be a man or a furry dog. Yet, it is filled with warmth when you create it yourself. So here I sit, contemplating the values and choices that have led me down my unique path. After all, isn’t it those little, routine moments that remind us we’re the authors of our own story - snowflakes included? I'm sure you've asked yourself - how on earth I ended up choosing a lifestyle like this one, or even why? I will do my best to enlighten you.

Many philosophers have considered reflection essential to living a meaningful life. Socrates famously proclaimed, “The unexamined life is not worth living,” emphasizing the importance of self-awareness and contemplation. Reflection is not just about solving problems but about connecting with the essence of what it means to be human.

Looking back on our experiences and evaluating them is a cornerstone of reflection. It’s a way to uncover lessons embedded in the past and apply them to shape our future. When we review what we've been through—whether victories, struggles, or even mundane moments—it allows us to: Identify patterns, acknowledge growth, gain perspective, and set intentions. Journaling to be precise, is how I clarify my experiences and uncover insights, and I'm about to go way back in time, decades ago - almost 50 in fact!

Picture a small paper mill town, set in Northern Ontario - Espanola on the Spanish River to be exact. A ghost town up until the Second World War, when the mill site became a camp for German prisoners of war. A pulp and paper mill that had a history of dumping noxious effluent into the River for decades. Espanola got some negative press in the early 1980s when the mill accidentally discharged toxic effluent into the Spanish River, killing fish by the thousands. The spill acted like a flush, and when the fish came back a few years later, they were reportedly untainted and thriving, although the toxic smell still remained. I remember the stories of people boasting they'd captured a 3-eyed frog or hooked a radioactive fish.

Now the mill is said to be one of the most stringent "zero-emissions" pulp bleaching processes in the world, and the area below the Spanish River Dam is a designated fish sanctuary. (In 2024 - the Domtar mill closed production and now lays dormant).

I often find myself reminiscing about those days when reaching school required two bus rides and a full hour each way to get to Espanola. The bus driver was my closest neighbor who lived a few miles down my dirt road, making me the first student to pick up and the last one to get off the bus. Each morning, I would embark on a journey along the winding dirt roads of a quaint township called Beaver Lake. The bus would bump and sway, navigating the rural landscape, stopping now and then to let the soft sight of a farmhouse emerge from the embrace of the uninhabited forests and fields we traveled through. The bus had a strict schedule, so you were either waiting at the end of your long driveway for the bus to arrive or running down the driveway as the driver honked the horn. This often happened because the bus was either two minutes early or you were two minutes late. Those moments, often lost over time, fill my heart with warm nostalgia, reminding me of the simple joys and cherished memories of my youth.

My childhood unfolded on the banks of the Vermillion River (with no 3-eyed frogs), where the allure of nature held me captive, woven tightly in its grip. In the late '70s, my father took the reins of the hydro dam at Lorne Falls as a power systems operator, and we embraced life as a family of five in a large historically remote boarding house, surrounded by the beauty of the land. Those days were about more than just a journey to school; they were about the adventure of growing up and the lessons learned along the way.

Navigating the challenging tomboy phase that many girls in the remote wilderness experience is like embarking on a transformative adventure. It’s a journey of self-discovery, where the thrill of climbing trees and the joy of fishing every day begin to intertwine with new interests. There is a delicate dance between rugged outdoor play and the allure of dressing up and experimenting with makeup. This phase is not just about fitting in with the popular crowd; it's an opportunity to blend the best of both worlds. In this beautiful tension of change lies the essence of my growth, navigating friendships, defining my identity, and learning to embrace the unique journey set before me. This transition would be the foundation for becoming the strong (albeit mostly stubborn), multifaceted woman I was destined to be.

The only positive note about the long bus ride home was how I used that time to finish my homework every day. I would ditch the nice school clothes for my jean overalls the second I got home to wander through my forested playground. Nine times out of ten, it was to go fishing, climbing up the penstocks that rumbled under my feet as the water was drawn from the upper dam down through the power plant where my dad worked. If you took a good run at the penstock, you could place your sneakers just right along the rivets holding a section of pipe together to get to the top. I'll always remember the feeling of laying down on those big thick steel pipes that were just about 11 feet in circumference. The rush of water flowing through them was like the rumble of a freight train. When the sun was shining on the dark metal, the steel would warm up, and I had fallen asleep on their steady rhythm many a time throughout my childhood. On my stomach with arms and legs outstretched as if I was laying on an elephant's back - head tilted to the side with my ear pressed against the pipe to hear the resonating flow of the water. I reflect on that time often, wondering what it would look like in this day and age, letting a kid have free-range over such a dangerous place - and I always come to the same conclusion of being grateful for having had such freedoms.

If I were up for a big adventure, I would jump in the giant cement log chute and straddle the v-shaped inside to get up or down from the dam. There were times I climbed down the ladder on the part of the dam that moved up and down to let the water out of the upper reservoir of the Vermillion River and let my feet hang until they touched the water flying out below creating the big waterfalls. It was fun because the force of the water made your feet kick out wildly from under you. It was a giant playground, to say the least, though I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to play on any of it - I just did. I know my Dad didn't worry much about it because he knew I was capable (I've never told him about hanging over the falls and skipping my feet on the rushing water though!) Growing up without neighbors or anywhere to play other than the wilderness in which we lived, was all I knew.

You can see the power plant, but the penstocks are hidden behind it, (two long 11-foot-wide steel pipes) running to the upper dam. The log chute is clearly visible, and you can just imagine the rushing falls moving over all those rocks beside it when the dam was open. I grew up with the noise of a power plant always running and the rush of giant waterfalls only meters away! On top of the dam, you can see a red metal structure, a giant gate that lifts to let the water rush out the bottom. I climbed to the top of that many times and also jumped off it into the reservoir when the dam was closed, of course. One strict rule was no swimming unless a parent was around, which we always adhered to.  The only incident we had was a beloved pet Newfoundland dog that swam across the river to chase after a beaver; he got sucked down the giant eddy and drowned.

Do you see the faint outline of dots tracing the upper part of the dam in the photo above? These marks were remnants of the once-thriving log booms—massive chains of 12-foot logs linked together. Their purpose? To corral the unwieldy elements of nature, catching everything from wayward trees to stubborn logs, ensuring they wouldn't jam up the dam and disrupt the flow of the river. One spring we stumbled upon the most astonishing find trapped in the remnants of those log booms: a bloated, floating cow, sadly drowned somewhere upriver from an unsuspecting farm.

Those logs strung together presented an exhilarating challenge awaiting those brave enough to embrace it. The logs, weathered by time and nature, beckoned adventurous souls to walk their precarious paths. With each step taken, the thrill surged through me, pushing my limits as I balanced on the slippery wood, heart racing with excitement.

It was a rite of passage, to navigate that watery labyrinth alongside my younger siblings, urging them on with encouraging shouts. The feeling of conquering the crossing was electric; it was proof of our courage and resilience. If you could make it all the way to the other side, you felt like you could conquer the world.

In those days, there were no helmets or life jackets to protect us, just the raw joy of exploration and the responsibility that came with it. It was a different era—one that taught us the importance of common sense and self-reliance. We learned the value of adventure and the thrill of pushing our boundaries while keeping our wits about us.

Every slip and stumble became a lesson, each moment teaching us to rise again, stronger and wiser. Those times shaped us, igniting a spirit of discovery and empowerment that continues to inspire us to seek out new challenges in life. We weren’t just kids playing on the river; we were adventurers, crafting memories that would last a lifetime, forging the path toward our own fearless futures.

After school on most days, a familiar thrill coursed through me as I sprinted to the upper river, the sun casting golden rays through the leaves like a warm embrace. I’d glance around for a trusty stick, the kind that felt perfect in my hand, plucked from the underbrush along the way. Reaching the dam, I’d carefully retrieve my fishing gear: first, freeing the hook from the pocket of my worn jean overalls, then pulling out the six feet of tangled fishing line from the other side.

The exhilaration of digging under a nearby rock to find a squirming worm set my heart racing. With agile fingers, I’d bait my hook, adding a sinker or two that jangled from yet another pocket of those ever-reliable overalls. Tying the line to the end of the stick, then plunking the hooked worm into the river's edge. Laying flat on my belly, I peered over the edge of the dam, my heart pounding with anticipation. If I hovered my head just right, shading the water from the sun's glare, I could see the silvery flickers beneath the surface, watchful fish lurking, ready to bite.

Every moment spent there was a treasure; I can’t recall ever complaining about boredom. The world outside my little fishing haven faded away, the only sounds being the symphony of the rushing water cascading down the penstocks and the roaring waterfall nearby. I knew that the only signal for me to return home would be Mom’s unmistakable two-pinky whistle, echoing through the trees all the way up to the dam, somehow reaching me. Each note cut through the air, reminding me it was time to go, but until then, I was lost in the magic of those moments, captured in the dance of fish and chorus of water.

Never forget the adventurous girl inside, with dirt on her hands and a heart full of laughter - being a tomboy was the secret ingredient that added the spice to my growing identity.

Embrace the contradictions, for they are the essence of your power. Real beauty lies in authenticity, and the girl who once mastered the wild wilderness will grow into a woman who confidently rules her own world, blending adventure with elegance, and never losing sight of her roots. Each step you take in those stylish shoes is a dance of resilience—a reminder that no transformation can diminish the courageous heart that still beats for adventure.

Did I ever tell you about the first time I laid eyes on the man I would marry?

I don't think so, but hang in there - I'll tell you all about it next time.